


Switchblade Cry

by choimiah



Category: GOT7, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: More Pairings to Come - Freeform, More characters to come, Multi, namjae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choimiah/pseuds/choimiah
Summary: Before that day, Youngjae didn't know. Before that day, Youngjae would have told anyone that he was human.After that day in his father's study with his leather-bound journal cracked open and catching his tears, Youngjae now knows that he isn't human at all. He's not even a Cross. He's full Phantom. As much shit as that already comes with, he's also Onyx Phantom, apparently the oldest and rarest type. So stratified in a terrible part of history that there are pople who want to make sure Youngjae doesn't live to see the day his powers reach their full potential. According to his father's journal entries, it's going to be sick. But he has to survive to witness it.He's going to need some help, and he'll also need to grow some balls because from what he's heard, the guys after him are no joke.





	1. Chronicle One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing another fantasy au with my cute son as the main. Am I biased? Hell yes. Also this is going to be mash up of different groups because my multifandom trash self refuses to be supressed any longer. Mostly got7 and bts though. I hope this is something people like. -Mia ❤

Realistically speaking, sloppy mourning and troublesome sentiment aside, being dead is taking the easy way out. He’s never been dead, close to death, sure, but never dead; there shouldn’t be anything to look forward to, as well as nothing to fear or worry over. Dirt, darkness, decomposers gnawing on a hunk of rotting flesh, paper bones, and a leaded conscious. There can’t be much more to it than that. So it’s basically taking a cheat code to life and getting out early. Some would call it a sort of no-strings-attached solution to all of their problems.

That can’t be farther from reality. A mere delusion cowards drip-feed into their bloodstreams until it settles uncomfortably in their unconscious bed of false truths, awkward elbows jabbing for someplace to occupy until something finally snaps. A pulsing and heavy lie that scalds the back of their tongues and grates down their throats, leaving nothing of their barely thumping chests but a lacerated chunk of the final piece of authenticity they know.

As death may seem like the grandest reverence one can leave, it actually means as much as a cockroach falling off the edge of the universe and drowning in the heat of the cosmos.

Worthy of neither a sneeze nor an obligatory scandalized gasp.

Those are things reserved for the living.

So when the casket closes and a train of sorry, suited ants go marching one by one down the aisle straight out of the hot and sticky chapel into the chilly early-afternoon drizzle, Youngjae yanks the collar of his dress shirt down, away from the pink ring it must have been intent on leaving around his neck, and follows solemnly for his mother’s sake. 

 

*    *    *    *    *

 

“He left you these,” the lawyer is saying in a muted voice from underneath the wily caterpillar trembling on his upper lip, beady glass eyes running over the paper in his skeleton hands, face as sullen as his thin voice. Youngjae supposes he should be paying better attention to the words, but he’s distracted by the pond of spittle gathering in the corners of the man’s flat lips. How long has he been reading the wills of the deceased with white-knuckled fingers and that crusty, orange stuff peeking out of his ears, the young man wonders with a somber curiosity instead of doing his diligence. 

“Take them.”

His mother’s low hiss bleeds into his thoughts and he finally registers that the man is holding a set of keys on a rusted chain out to him, looking rather annoyed in his own way, plastic grin faltering and sympathetic eyes diluted. Youngjae sits up in the hard chair and takes the keys with a single nod, immediately more interested in turning them over in his hands than in accepting the man’s tailored smile.  

“There’s a property near Prawling Wood,” the man says as he wrings his hands on top of the papers. “The plants are overgrown and the old paint is chipping, but the roof is stable and the foundation is sound. Got a nice view of the trees, too. Are you interested in seeing it? I can have a driver take you out there before taking you on home.”

Inheriting anything from his father has never been apart of Youngjae’s life plan. For one, he used to believe that his father would outlive them all, sitting in a hard chair like the one Youngjae is in now, in his dim study, overlooking the chaos from his safe bubble. Alone, weak, but not sick. Definitely not suffering from inflamed lungs and a persistent whooping cough.

Did his father even smoke?

It’s certainly possible. The last time Youngjae saw him during any time of leisure had been when Youngjae was ten, stupid and small, bouncing in his daddy’s lap with the red syrup from his lollipop crusting around his mouth. He may have been a terrible smoker with the worst penchant for death, craving it as badly as he could muster the strength to crave anything in this world. 

Even so, inflamed lungs seems...puny.

Youngjae’s father is, or _was_ , no great man, in Youngjae’s eyes anyway. But he had more control than that. He could afford the best doctors in Asia, at the very least. If not in the whole world. Lung inflammation on account of some taxing habit seems like a joke. Still, who’s he going to argue against?

Why should he argue at all?

Youngjae shouldn't even want to accept anything from his father, alive or not. He has a cozy studio just on the edge of the city; far enough for his paycheck as an instructor at a kid’s doju to be able to afford, and close enough to the city to keep him out of the gossip loop of the countryside.  

He doesn’t need this, wouldn’t even take it if the man’s restless soul begged him to. The only reason he garners any interest at all is because before he can refuse himself, his mother does it for him. Telling the man across from them that Youngjae has no intention in staying in some remote, abandoned death trap in the backwoods.

Harsh.

Youngjae doesn’t say much of anything when she goes off on the man in her usual fashion, passionate yet firm. What spurs him into action is when she tries to take the keys straight out of his hand. He closes his fingers without hesitation and retracts his balled fist, keys heavy in his palm. 

His mother looks at him as if he’s growing a third eye smack dab in the center of his forehead, insulted. “You’re not actually considering this, are you? What about your job? What about the apartment? Son, don’t throw your life away just to-”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” he says resolutely. “It won’t hurt to look at the place. Even if I don’t live in it, I can make some other use of it. Turn it into something with some purpose. It’s an entire house, mom. Why waste it?” 

Honestly, Youngjae has no real resolve to do any of that, but if his mother is so intent on keeping him away, then Youngjae has no choice but to do the exact opposite. What is she so worked up about? It’s an old house by some dopey forest that’s falling apart at the seams. How can looking at it harm anyone?

“I’d like to see it,” Youngjae tells the man. 

“I’ll get Haemin right over.” The old man takes the phone on his desk off the hook and dials some numbers quickly, or as quickly as he can with the tremor and all. Paying no attention to what he’s telling this Haemin person, Youngjae looks over at his mother, only slightly surprised at the look of agitation she’s fixing him underneath her floppy, wide-brimmed hat. 

“It’s a house,” Youngjae groans. “Why are you spazzing?”

“You don’t listen anymore,” she says off-handedly. “I can understand your dad. But, you’ve always listened so well to me. I birthed you, boy. What’s happening with you?”

“Call it a late rebellion.” Youngjae cracks a grin, hoping he’ll get her to soften up.

It doesn’t work.

“What are looking for?” His mother crosses her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. “We both know it’s just a dirty building out in the middle of nowhere that your dad wanted to get rid of, so he tossed it to the side and decided at the last second to give the darn thing away.”

“Then we already have something in common.” Thinking it is so much different from saying it aloud. Now it feels real. There’s no way to snatch it out of the air and stuff it back into his chest. It hurts. Real bad. 

Of course there’s nothing his mother can say in rebuttal to that. He reckons few people would ever have anything to say to refute the obvious fact that his father gave up on him. There was no tangible event that marked the beginning of his father’s hatred and later indifference towards him. One day he just began to ignore him until Youngjae stopped knocking on his door at breakfast, a sad ‘daddy’ squeaking out of him. It’s been so long that Youngjae can hardly remember if he ever loved him at all.

“Haemin’s waiting at the curb.” The old man finally hangs up the phone and folds his liver-spotted hands on the desk. “I wish I could walk you down, but I’m expecting another client very soon and I have some things to prepare.”

“That’s fine,” his mother says, and stands. Youngjae follows her out of the door. The man’s condolences are lost once they reach the end of the cramped hallway and are stepping onto the elevator. The ride down is suffocating. He can feel his mother’s openly pleading stare on the side of his face, but he refuses to turn to look at her. She doesn’t have the right to be asking for any type of forgiveness, just as Youngjae isn’t in any position to forgive her. 

This isn’t their fight. 

Just as the man had said, there is someone waiting for them when they exit the building. It’s a middle-aged woman wearing an ash grey peacoat, the only thing visible beneath that being her black pantyhose and simple flats. She has a plain face with pin-straight black blair swirled up in a bun at the base of her neck, kept and tidy. In an alternate universe, she may be the president of something. She has the composure for it. But, in this pocket of the world she’s just a woman who will drive them a few places before going on her way. 

The greetings are short, and the apologies even shorter. Youngjae is grateful. The two slide in the back of the silver town car and buckle in, keeping a polite distance he can’t help but ponder over. 

“Where are you going?” Haemin asks once she’s in and buckled.

Youngjae hands her the paper with the address on it.

“That place by Prawling Wood?” she questions with enough apprehension for Youngjae to stiffen.

“You know it?” he asks.

“Who doesn’t?” With that, she starts the car and they’re off. “I’ll have to stop for gas if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want to break down in the street.”

“It’s fine,” his mother says indifferently. 

The gas station is just down the street. Haemin gets out to go pay, and Youngjae follows her to be away from his mother and her sour mood. Youngjae doesn’t pay much attention to the weather because his coat is decent enough. Although he definitely notices the shallow sweat breaking out over his brows when he steps into the overly warm store. 

Just as he had raced to get in and away from his mother, he’s doing the same to get out of this place and escape the heat. He grabs a bag of chips and a pop and hurries over to one of the counters. There’s two of them, but only one operator. He waits impatiently at the second as the man hogging the other one seems to be fooling around with lottery tickets. 

“You have a great ass,” a springy voice says from behind him. Youngjae isn’t very conceited, but seeing as the only other person in his view is an older gentleman covered from neck to ankle he turns around to meet the voice. 

The stranger seems to be around Youngjae’s age, maybe older, even if his slighter stature doesn’t attest to it. He has bright almond eyes, a button nose, and pillowy, peach lips with bubblegum fringe that falls just short of his eyes. Cute.

He must be waiting for a response because he’s still looking at Youngjae, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I do squats.”

It’s the right thing to say, apparently, because the stranger laughs. It’s a twinkling sound that could soothe even the grumpiest of men. 

“Those squats do you damn good,” he says with a genuine grin. “I’m Jimin.”

“Youngjae.”

“You live around here, Youngjae?”

“No, across town actually. It’s close to the dojo I work at.”

The man finally leaves and Youngjae inches closer to the counter. Something which isn’t missed by the other.

“If you ever find yourself looking for work, just come by the Jam Crib on 7th and Porter. Tell ‘em Jimin sent you. We can always use handsome faces with bodies like yours.”

“Sure. Thanks, Jimin.”

Youngjae rings up his stuff, remembers to wave to Jimin when he steps up for his turn, and slides in the car just as Haemin is finished pumping gas. 

 

*    *    *    *    *

 

The house is nothing special. Youngjae shouldn’t have expected it to be. It’s just, the way his mother had been so adamantly against even coming sparked a sad little hope in Youngjae that he was going to walk up to something with more grandeur than the uncooperative black iron gate that seems intet on giving Youngjae a hard time even when he wiggles the key in the lock more than a few times.

It finally gives way after the third or fourth attempt and he pushes it open just enough for him to slip through the little space. His mother stayed in the car of course. She says it’s because all of the dust will flare her asthma. But Youngjae would be an idiot to believe that after the fuss she’d made. 

The front door gives him much less trouble than the gate. He lets himself inside without a hassle and pats the wall for a light switch, which he finds after a minute of blind searching. The chandelier flickers on. Youngjae wouldn’t even need it if the sky weren’t swollen with black clouds promising nothing short a storm.

It’s huge. He gives it that, but it’s very unimpressive. It is covered with dust, in layers so thick he suddenly fears for his own lungs. The foyer is mostly empty, save for a wooden table with some limp daisies swimming in a vase of old water sat right on top of it. The room to his right is dark. He can still make out the shape of a tv and a sofa, though. A living room. To the sides of him are separate staircases that both lead to the second floor. And straight ahead is a dark kitchen.

Nothing is particularly investigation worthy. He wanders upstairs anyway. He doesn’t want to give his mother the satisfaction of coming out right away. More dust. More unimpressive stuff. And now a moldy smell assaults his senses, almost as if some force is trying to force him out. He presses on despite the urge to run away and never come back.

Nothing looks wrong, but something feels so terribly the matter when Youngjae passes one room and it feels like his very core is being splintered in two. He grips the railing to keep from toppling over as he races down the stairs and up to the front door, not even sparing a glance back as he hurries outside, past the gate, and huddles back into the car. 

“What’s wrong?” his mother’s hands are on his face in an instant. Youngjae is so shaken he doesn’t even think about how cold her hands are and how tough the callouses of her palms are.

“Nothing,” Youngjae lies expertly. “Just a little spooky is all. And dusty. I haven’t coughed that much ever.” 

“See?” His mother always did love to be right. “I told you nothing good can come from you going there. Haemin, I think we’re ready to go home now.”

“You got it, Mrs. Choi.”

Once he’s buckled in, they pull away from the curb and get on their way once more. The drive to his old house is nothing short of aggravating. He can’t stop thinking how different it will be, or how disappointed he’ll be to see that absolutely nothing has changed. A small part of him wants for something to be different. He needs to know that his parents care still. Maybe they’ve let the grass grow too long, or forgot to refill the birdhouses in the backyard so there is no more sweet chirping in the spring.

Does it sting when they pull up, finally, and not one single thing is out of place? Sure.

But, does he let it show? He wouldn’t dare. 

“I can wait.” Haemin levels him a friendly smile through the rearview mirror.

“That’s okay,” Youngjae says, returning the kind gesture. “I’ll get back just fine. There’s a few trains that run there. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Once they’re out and the car door is shut, Haemin pulls back onto the street and grumbles down the road, disappearing after a right turn. His mother’s heels clunk against the sidewalk and up the porch steps. Youngjae follows her from a distance, taking in the sight. The chrysanthemums he’d begged them to plant about ten years are long gone, replaced by by a new batch unfamiliar to him and wilting in preparation for winter. 

“Honey, come on up.”

Youngjae jogs over to the porch, his legs eating the short distance easily. Before he’s even inside all of the way, his mother is already banging things in the kitchen, the fake yellow light filtering into the unlit sitting room. He flicks the entryway light on to prevent any accidents and ascends the stairs separated from the family room by a wall. The same wall he’d slammed his hand into when he fell down the stairs once, causing some of his fingers on the hand to bend at unnatural angles in some positions. 

He doesn’t even bother with the hallway light when he gets upstairs because he knows where everything is, can map out the legs of the table with the flower vase on it even in the dark. His legs automatically take him to his room, not stopping to realize until he’s inside that he isn’t coming back from a short trip to the bathroom, but from two-year venture in the city.

Being in his own room feels weird, as stupid as that is.  

It looks the same as it did then. There’s no reason for it to look different. It’s not like anyone actually came in and sat on his bed enough for it to dent as they worried about his well-being in the big city. No trails in his carpet from anyone pacing back and forth, wondering if he’d ever come home. It’s so clean and untouched that Youngjae actually allows himself to be offended at the obtuse disinterest his parents had for him.

He doesn’t let it fester into anything significant though, just grabs up a few things he left and stuffs them in his backpack. He pulls the straps over his shoulders and continues on. The wood creaks just like it used to when he passes the stairs. The sweet and salty aroma is still baked into the walls from all of the times he’s gone running through the hallway with caramel apples swiped from his dad’s work bag, ready to jump on his parents’ bed and eat it while watching Pororo as chopped peanuts sprinkled on the fuzzy comforter. 

All of that is in the past.

What Youngjae really came here for is the closed door at the end of the hallway. His steps are muted by the anticipation beating loud in his ears. The doorknob is cold enough to sting his palm. Still, he presses on inside.

If nothing else bothers him, it’s the smell of old books and warm leather that nearly has him crawling to get away. It fills his nose and causes his knees to buckle as he runs his fingers over the big oak desk and kicks up even more of the loaded scent. It really is stupid the way his eyes water like he gives a shit about this man and what they used to have before he ripped the shutters of his eyes closed tight and refused to let Youngjae in for even a second afterward. Really, he couldn’t care less than he does now about Choi Youngho and his dumb hands and dull brown eyes and wide face. He’s the piece of crap who shut out his own son.

Wiping away the pathetic tears spitefully, Youngjae stomps around the desk to yank open his desk drawers, unsure of what he’s looking for. None of them are locked, but most are empty, which strikes Youngjae as extremely backward. As much time as he spent in here, what could he have been doing when the drawers are empty? The only thing he manages to find are some dusty, yellow-paged journals which he stuffs in his backpack just out of curiosity, and then goes pilfering through the bookshelf after having turned on the lamp.

Nothing else of any real importance presents itself. All he discovers are books on business and economics mixed between some books that look like pleasure reads, so he goes to sit in his father’s sunken leather chair behind the desk and blatantly ignores his own voice going ‘ _daddy, i love you!_ ’. 

Youngjae has always wondered what his father used to write in his journals so busily. Before he shut him out, the young boy would perch himself right on his father’s knee and giggle over the sound of the man’s scratching pen. When he tried to peek at the words, even though he probably wouldn’t have understood half of it, his father would pat his head and tell him to go back to his coloring. 

Now he’s running his fingertips over the soft, deep brown suede and hoping it was worth the wait. Not knowing where to start, he flips to a random page and takes note of the date scribbled in blue ink in the top right corner.

**_September 20th, 2002_ **

_Jaejae Spindled his first soul today. He’s so powerful at his young age. It seems like he’ll need to start training sooner to contain his power or else his onyx will rot. I’m sure he’s an onyx._

 

His ears are starting to ring as he reads further. What is his father talking about? He couldn’t be an onyx, ...could he? No, that would mean-

  
_**September 19th, 2003** _

_He’s getting to be a fine little Spindler. So strong. So controlled. He probably doesn’t even realize yet. But the time is definitely nearing to tell him. If he’s not honed properly he’ll go rogue. He’s much too strong for it to remain a secret to himself any longer._

 

What is Spindling? Youngjae doesn’t know how to do what his father is talking about. He’s never found himself to be special in any way. He’s a dud human. That’s what he’s been his entire life. His father had to be wrong. He can’t be an onyx because his mother is plain human. 

If anything, he’s a Cross.

.  
.  
.

He’s a Cross?

The sound of his blood pumping hard in his temples drowns out the creak of the door to his father’s study swinging open. His eyes creep that way slowly, focusing on his mother’s trembling shape belatedly and wiping away more of the wetness trailing the swell of his cheeks.

“What are you doing in here?” Her voice is rough. “You know you aren’t allowed in here.”

“Mom,” Youngjae warbles miserably. “Did you know? I’m a Cross.”

His tears must soften her. “Jae, sweetheart. What are you talking about? You’re hu-”

“Are you gonna lie to me like dad did, mom?” Youngjae gets to his feet unsteadily, grabbing the journal and waving it around weakly. “What the hell is this? Am I a cross? Was dad Phantom?”

The journals obviously have meaning to her as she blanches immediately, lips moving wordlessly.

“I think I’m a Cross,” Youngjae breathes. The muscles in his face are manipulating his expression in all kinds of ways, but it does seem to favor a hybrid of mortification and teeming disbelief. His chest won’t stop skipping, heart going nuts as his tongue dries out. “I’m think I’m-”

“You’re not,” his mother says, quiet, so very quiet that Youngjae can’t help but ignore the roar behind her words and continue babbling in his disorienting confusion, constantly sputtering the same thing over and over again until a loud noise finally shuts him up.

It’s his mother’s scream, something he hasn’t heard in a very long time, and he knows now that he doesn’t ever want to hear it again. His eyes find hers in the low light of his father’s study. The dusty lamp may scarcely reach the far corners of them room, but they do a decent job in highlighting the tired lines of his mother’s face, her sour frown.

“You’re not a Cross, Youngjae,” she whispers in a pained voice, as if nothing in the world ever hurt so bad as admitting what she is now. “You’re not a Cross because you’re full Phantom.”

He really loses his senses at that. 


	2. II

“Let me get this straight. There are people after me who want to kill me.”

“Not you specifically, just those like you.”

“Yeah, okay, so there are people after those like me, which just so happens to include me as well, who want me--ah, my apologies-- _those like me_ , also me, dead.”

“...Something like that.”

“So, I’m gonna die?”

“No,” his mother stresses, probably for the twentieth time. “You just need to be careful who you trust.”

And the story goes like this:

Sometime in the sixteenth century, there was a major war between the races. Goiidas (reptile humans), Lynxes (imp humans), Kitsunas (life magic practicing warlocks), Tygons (death magic practicing warlocks), Dixies (a mix of earth, water, fire), Gem Phantoms, Crosses (a mix of human and Phantom), and humans. As luck would have it, dear old dad’s ancestors were humongous assholes, so the whole alliance thing didn’t work out well for them. Their arrogance was deeply seated in the blatant fact that Phantoms and their ability to summons spirits as well as honing a separate power specific to their gem made them one of the untouchables. The other races were painfully aware of it, and although the war was between everyone, there was an unspoken pact between them to wipe out Phantoms first.

Of course some survived despite the brutal one-sided nature of the war which brought desolation to countless villages and almost brought around near extinction for the race, because Youngjae is here. Phantoms aren’t extinct now, not even a rarity. Those who came after their conceited ancestors inherited a humility central to their survival and well-being in polite society. 

There wouldn’t be a problem at all if Youngjae hadn’t been born Onyx; which happens to be a dying subsection of their race, and the most hated of all Phantoms due to their influence in initiating the entire war and slaughtering thousands, even other Phantoms. So someone’s grandbabies’ grandbabies is lusting for his blood just for being born to his father, as if that fate alone isn’t already a punishment.

This is all meaning Youngjae could end up being killed for reasons he can’t help, and the only way he won’t have to subject to an early demise is if he figures out what the hell Spindling is supposed to be and learn how to control it for his own defense. 

Easy. 

“How am I supposed to protect myself when I don’t even know who I am?” Damn, if that doesn’t sound like a line straight out of some angsty teen sci-fi Youngjae would purposely toss aside. 

“Your dad left you some insurance,” his mother says. 

“How is money supposed to help me not die?” Youngjae furrows his brows. “I’m pretty sure if some dude’s ancestors slaughtered my family, I’d want his balls on a necklace. Not some hush money.”

“Not that kind of insurance.” His mother reaches behind her neck to slip off the necklace she always wears, a piece of translucent blue opal on a silver chain. She passes Youngjae on her way to a nondescript black cabinet that is so plain compared to the others that Youngjae feels like a dense loaf for not noticing it before. His mother takes her opal and presses it into an identically shaped slot carved into the cabinet. There’s a distinctive click and the cabinet’s door swings open slowly.

“Shit,” he breathes in disbelief.

His mother turns on him quickly, eyes stern. “One more profane word and your eating soap tonight.”

“Understood.” He nods quickly. 

A mauve light is wafting softly from somewhere, and before Youngjae can ponder any further on its source his mother takes out a black backpack as unassuming as the cabinet itself and goes over to him, dropping it on the desk. 

“What am I-”

“Frankly, I don’t know much more than this. Your dad told me to give you the backpack.” She reaches around him and fastens the necklace, tracing the chain from the back to the front with her cold fingertips and pats his chest with sad, little smile before dropping her hands. “And this. There are instructions inside on where to go from here, which he never let me read of course. He said I’d be fraternizing with somebody’s else’s business, big magic. Out of my league.”

She cracks another weak smile, eyes full of emotion too deep for Youngjae to bring anything prominent to the forefront. “I know he was just trying to protect me. He has his own way of showing love.”

“At least you got something,” Youngjae grumbles bitterly.

“Honey,” his mother laughs quietly. “He loved you.”

“Well, he had a weird way of showing it.” In what world does neglect and avoidance amount to anything close to love? They’re not kids on a playground. His father had other ways of showing affection at his disposal other than yanking at Youngjae’s hair or pushing him off the jungle gym. He knows his mother means well, but he isn’t buying it. Any of it. 

“I’ll go make something then.” His mother smiles one last time, petting his hair in a way that makes Youngjae want to grab onto her, like she’ll disappear from his life and never come back. He doesn’t, though. Just lets her leave as quietly as she came, closing the door on her way out, and he settles back into his father’s chair, pulling the backpack into the light more. 

As unassuming as the outside is, the inside is a perplexity. He dumps the contents out onto the desk. He might’ve cringed at how something near to glass clunks on the wood and makes a painful sound, as if threatening to break if he doesn’t learn to handle it better, if he knew what the hell it is. What lies in front of him is this totem pole looking thing covered in baby scribble, an old, crusty book with a black lock sewn into the soft leather, and a little case. Inside of it is a block of onyx, the only thing inside the entire bag that seems to have any value at all. He doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with any of it.

Dear old dad is still fucking him over, and he’s dead. 

On the verge of blowing a gasket, Youngjae rips the backpack off the desk and is making to chuck it somewhere out of sight when a paper falls out of a pocket. He squints at the crumpled, yellowing paper in slight suspicion, lowering the backpack and eventually letting it fall on the desk as he bends to scoop the paper off the floor. 

It’s damp from age and the ink is a little muddled, but when he sits next to the lamp he can make out the words just fine. It unsettles him just a bit how he recognizes his father’s handwriting right away, straight, uniform lines like something out of a textbook. He lets the feeling die as he focuses on what’s written rather than who it’s written by.

_*  
Youngjae,_

_If you’re reading this then something has happened. Something important that you’ll have to figure out mostly on your own. I’ve left you some supplies that should help you map out the beginning, but the rest is up to you and the people you meet._

_First things first, trust only those who give you a reason to trust them. There are clans out for your blood. I’m not sure what others there are besides the Yuan, our natural and oldest enemy, but there very well are more. Have your wits about you, son._

_As for the items in the bag, the staff is our most treasured tool as Phantoms. It’s a blade switching talisman with multiple faces that will reveal themselves in due time. The book is our journal of charms and enchantments, all of which you’ll eventually learn to use. The onyx is your gem. If you go to the address at the bottom of this letter you’ll just ask for Minho and he’ll have your gem carved and made into a locket in exchange for the quartz._

_The only thing left is your power. Being Phantom, you were born with an ability to summon spirits of the deceased called Spindling. It peaks sometime around 20 and the effects are inevitable, kind of like puberty. You may sneeze and a spirit of a dead squirrel will come running up to you. Don’t be alarmed. You can will them away through studying and practice. I’m not sure how much time you have left or if it’s already begun, but the journal has everything you should need._

_Apart from that, your onyx gem gives you a special power all your own. It’s different for every Phantom. It varies even between the same gems as well. I haven’t lived long enough to sense yours. That’s something you’ll definitely have to navigate on your own. Other than these same tools my father gave me and a few short instructions, I leave you nothing but good wishes, son._

_Don’t give out your last name if possible, and try your best to keep your Phantom heritage a secret. Especially that you’re onyx. No need to gain more enemies than the ones you already have. If it’s unavoidable, then say you’re quartz Phantom. Not much harm in that._

_Be safe._

_Dad  
*_

Nothing registers for long, stagnant moments. Silence is whistling through Youngjae’s chest and his hands feel numb for some odd reason. He’s Phantom, whatever the hell that means, and he’s marked for death by some goons with a grudge who probably know how to use their powers.

Talisman.

Enchantments.

Sneezing.

Squirrel spirits.

He just takes a moment to let this all sink in as he folds the paper carefully and stuffs it in his coat pocket. He spends more time thinking it over as he puts all of the items back in the backpack and zips it completely, swinging it over one shoulder and leaving the study.

The first place he stops is at his room to take a shower and put on some fresh clothes: a pair of indigo jeans, a long sleeve black shirt, and his favorite black leather jacket with the soft hood. He also takes some time to drop a few necessities and a couple of changes of clothes into an army green drawstring and fits it inside the backpack along with the other “tools”. Even after preparing for it, what he’s about to do doesn’t feel real. Maybe it won’t feel real until someone has a knife at his jugular. 

“Youngjae!” his mother shouts from the kitchen. “If you’re hungry, food’s ready!”

“Coming!” he shouts back and picks the bag up by the handle and jogs downstairs, making sure to drop it by the couch as he walks inside the lit kitchen, delightfully bombarded by something smelling savory and delicious. 

“That smells bomb.” Youngjae walks up behind his mother at the stove and swipes a few ceramic bowls from above her head, going to set the table after he grabs some utensils from a drawer. 

“Kimchi tuna stew.” There’s some pride in her voice. She turns off the stove and picks up the pot nearly filled to the brim with stew, which Youngjae easily trades her for a coaster. “Thanks, honey.” 

After setting the stew down on the coaster in the middle of the table, Youngjae helps his mother with the rice and they sit eventually, spooning stew and rice in comfortable silence. That’s when a thought occurs to Youngjae that makes his throat constrict and the food inside of his stomach already churn painfully. 

He tries to look up at his mother as discreetly as possible, tracing her thin jaw, shallow laugh lines surrounding her lips, and mulling quietly over her pale complexion. He thinks he’s being so very non-obvious, but he’s proven wrong when his mother’s lilting voice cuts through his concentration.

“Do I have rice on my face or am I just that pretty?”

“So, does me being...Phantom...does that, uh, mean-” Youngjae stutters as he plays with his chopsticks nervously.

“Sweetheart,” his mother urges patiently.

Youngjae puts his chopsticks down completely. “How can I be full Phantom while you’re human? Does that mean that-”

“You’re right,” his mother cuts him off with a pitched whine in her usually steady voice. “Your birth mom passed away when you were too young to remember. You called me mommy the first time you saw me and you’ve always been my little boy.”

“Did you ever hate me?” Youngjae asks hesitantly. His mother looks over at him in confusion, brown eyes a little dazed but clearly quizzical. “I mean, I’m the son of my dad’s other wife. They didn’t even fall out of love. She just died. How could you not resent me?”

“That was the easiest thing to accept,” she says with a gentle sigh, lips smiling and eyes slightly wet. “Hiding that your dad was Phantom, trying not to lose my mind every time he said Lina’s name in his sleep, living with the guilt that I was trying to take her place. I even stole her pretty little boy and he thinks I’m his mom. That’s gotta make me an asshole, right? But, you? If nothing else felt right, holding you in my arms was the easiest thing to do.”

“So I’m technically an orphan?” Youngjae wrings his hands in discomfort, eyes dropping. “Since both of my parents are dead.”

“I’m still breathing, darling.” His mother levels him with a challenging stare. “Don’t know what this orphan business is about.”

Youngjae looks back and straight at her eyes, sliding down to her lips that are threatening a smile, and back up to her cresent eyes. The tension breaks when his mother laughs, something loud and happy that causes Youngjae to copy her, appeased for one moment, desperate for this because he doesn’t know when the happiness will end. 

Before Youngjae realizes it, he’s done eating and his mother is finishing up her rice. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say, to slow her down so he can savor the last time he’ll probably have with his mother in a little while. This Phantom business doesn’t sound like tidy work he’s able to finish up quickly and get back to his prior existence afterward. His life is at stake, possibly even his mother’s life as well. 

Obviously there’s no time to dwell on it because after it’s clear they’re both done, his mother gets up and busies herself with the few dishes they made. Youngjae would offer his help, might have even just gotten up to do it with her without asking at all; except the way she’d gotten up without preamble and turned her back to him resolutely suggests this is something she wants to do alone. So he lets her. 

“You’ll be safe, won’t you?” his mother is saying in a pained voice. It doesn’t take long to figure out she’s crying, shoulders trembling slightly in the fake yellow luminescence. 

“Mom-”

“Promise me my little boy is going to be safe. Promise me you’ll come home when it’s over. Promise me-”

Youngjae stands, takes hold of his his mother with soft fingers, and pulls her into a hug all in one swift motion. Her damp hands are on his neck, but he doesn’t have enough energy to care. 

“I’m gonna be okay.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “We’re gonna be okay, mom. I’ll come home. Promise.”

“Swear to me you won’t give up, Youngjae.” Her wet eyes zone in on his his and don’t let up. “Swear to me you’ll be a fighter.”

His chest twists. “I swear.”

And then she pulls away from him reluctantly, and goes to dig in a cabinet for something. What she pulls out is an old Christmas tin. When she flips the top off and Youngjae sees that it’s full of hundred dollar bills his jaw unhinges.

“How much is that?” Youngjae sucks in an awed breath.

“$10,000.” His mother begins straightening the bills and separating them into envelopes. “It won’t last forever, but it’s a start. You have your dad’s insurance. This is mine.”

“Mom.” Youngjae shakes his head. “I can’t take that.”

“If you don’t want to see me lose my mind then you will take it.”

“I have a job, mom. It’s okay-”

“We don’t know what will happen. You might want to call in a leave of absence. Lay low for a little while.” She finishes packing the money and arranges them in a heap in the middle of the table.

“That’s the best job I’ve ever had. The only job a teen can get that pays like that.” If he loses his job somehow he isn’t sure how soon he’ll be able to find a new one. He has rent due. Utilities to pay. He can’t just drop everything to play hide and seek with whoever it is after him. He has school to think about, too. He doesn’t want to teach kiddie karate for the rest of his life. 

“And just a few hours ago you seemed the most adamant about me not not throwing my life away,” he adds indignantly. 

“I know what I said. Listen, Youngjae. _Angel_.” His mother runs a palm deftly over her face, massaging her temple and looking the most worn down he’s ever seen her. “I got a call about an hour ago, yeah? They were speaking fast Tygoni. I barely understood a word, but they didn’t sound very happy with me. I think, no, I know you’re in danger. Your dad never told me anything. Now the only thing I can do to help is give you give this money and make sure you follow whatever you dad told you so you can stay safe. Stay alive.” Her voice cracks over ‘alive’ and Youngjae immediately flushes with guilt at having even entertained the idea that his mother doesn’t care. 

“I’ll try to stay alive.”

*       *       *       *       *

The press of his mother’s cold hands is still burning down Youngjae’s neck, which is wrapped in a scarf she’d nearly choked him with on his way out. Navigating unfamiliar roads is hard enough, but the way every shadow morphs into something more sinister than it really is has Youngjae on edge. He’s aching to get somewhere warm and off the street, out of the open. He keeps checking the address on the paper and counting the numbers on the buildings as he walks past them, intent on not missing his destination. Not even the fresh snow whirling in strong loops can deter him.

A building with black tinted windows and vibrating with bass stretches slowly into view. It takes up half a block. Youngjae prays he can just whiz right by. If there’s anywhere he has an extremely high chance of getting snatched up and dragged out to be gutted like an animal in an alley somewhere by his enemies, it’s in a dark club with loud music to drown out his screaming. 

 _The Jam Crib_ is spelled out in psychedelic lettering over the double-doored entrance. When Youngjae goes inside, it isn’t as loud as he’d feared. The bass is definitely thumping, but it isn’t an ear-splitting EDM track, rather some English rap music Youngjae is familiar with from the radio. The entryway is dim, sporting an emergency exit to the right, some curtains that clearly lead to the main action, and a booth straight ahead of him. He has no way of knowing where he needs to be to find Minho, so he goes right up to the booth, tries his best not to look as lost as he really is, and knocks his knuckles against the plexiglass. 

A young woman looking to be in her mid-twenties comes from somewhere behind another curtain and gives him an unimpressed look, arms crossed and gum popping loudly. 

“You look young.” She smirks in a way that isn’t friendly at all.

Youngjae copies her. “Can’t say the same for you.”

Her nasty smile disappears and she rolls her eyes so hard they look ready to pop out of her skull. “What do you want, kid? I have actual customers to tend to. Bucky Boo’s Toy Emporium is a couple blocks down.”

Completely done with her shit and growing impatient, Youngjae hardens his stare. “I’m looking for Minho. He around?”

“Depends.” Her simper is back. Youngjae catches on. He suppresses his own eye roll as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a twenty, sliding it through a cutout in the barrier. The woman yanks it right up with a satisfied smile.

“You may be young, but you’re not stupid.” With that she disappears. Youngjae figures he’ll be waiting a little while, and so he allows his mind to rewind about forty minutes, when he’d called his manager. She wasn’t exactly pleased with it, and his ‘leave of absence’ may end in his eventual unemployment, something he is somewhat expecting yet praying against with all his soul. 

If he’s losing the best job he’s ever had for this, he better get the entire package, super ass kicking abilities and a shiny new set of magic powers included. 

“Why are you looking for Minho?”

Youngjae startles at the gravelly voice. He turns around to lock gazes with someone else in their mid to late twenties, a tall man with big, handsome eyes and a calculative glint in them. The teen straightens his jacket, suddenly overcome with inferiority. He clears his throat so not to mess it up.

“I have a package for his brother,” he says tensely. The way the man squints at him, in complete disbelief, causes his gut to nosedive. 

“You’re the Choi boy.” He says it at like an old man talking to the grandson of his old chum. He can’t be that old, but his voice and mannerisms are mature beyond his years. Youngjae nods, swallowing tightly.  

“You have it?” he asks tersely, eyes narrowed still. Youngjae isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond in words, so he slips the necklace from around his neck and passes it through the cutout nervously along with the box with the onyx. The man picks it up, holding it by the chain and letting the dusty light of the booth do something to the quartz. He isn’t sure what, but the man seems satisfied, finally loosening his hard stare and nodding to the entrance.

“It’ll be a little while.” And then he’s gone without another word. 

With no other place to hide out until it’s all settled, Youngjae just slips through the curtains and wanders over to an empty table right on the border between the other cluster of tables and the vacant stage. The lights are low and there’s some colorful strobing happening, but he’s able to see bubblegum boy behind the bar counter clear as day. He has the leisure of being pleasantly surprised for the moment, having completely missed the connection in his hazy preoccupation. He doesn’t even need to walk over because just as he’s finished making this realization Jimin recognizes him, smiling widely, and making some gesture with his hands that Youngjae translates as ‘stay there, i’m coming over’. So he stays put.

The man mixes a couple of drinks for a pair of droopy-eyed, shaggy haired dudes and then wipes his hands on a towel before flipping up the counter hatch and nudging his way through the pulsating bodies crowded around a vintage jukebox to Youngjae. 

“When I said you should come by, I didn’t mean for you to sprint over.” Jimin giggles, tickled right pink by his own joke. “Something happen?”

“A few things actually,” Youngjae admits vaguely with a little sigh. “That job offer still up?”

“Hell yes.” Jimin grabs Youngjae’s hands with an excited grin. “Soojun quit two days. Some idiot touched his no-no square one too many times and dude peaced out. We could use a server. How soon can you start?”

“Now?” Youngjae offers hopefully.

“Lit.” Jimin pumps a fist in the air and Youngjae can’t help but crack a smile. “C’mon. Let me introduce you to the manager.”

They walk back behind the counter, through an open space that looks like a worker break room with much brighter light, and into an office right off of it. Youngjae notes that Shift Manager Markeu Twain is printed on a laminated paper stuck to the window of the door by a magnet. A slimmed faced young man with model-worthy features is lounging in a soft looking leather chair on wheels behind a black desk that houses a macbook and a stack of papers. 

“Mark-hyung?” Jimin knocks on the desk so the man looks up at them, taking one last glance at his screen and typing quickly before returning his full attention to them. 

“What’s up, Chim?” Then he turns to Youngjae with a confused smile. “Who’s this?”

“Youngjae,” Jimin says cheerily. “Our new server.”

“You ever served before?” Mark asks Youngjae. 

“No.” Youngjae bites his lip. “I used to teach kids at a dojo. I guess I’m pretty quick on my feet though. And people usually don’t hate me.”

Mark chuckles. “That’s decent enough. How about I put you on for a couple of hours? And if by the end of the night you’re still in one piece, I’ll add to the schedule for next week.”

“Sounds good.” Youngjae smiles. 

“Okay.” Mark is already slipping back into his work. “Chim, get him a uniform and take him out there.”

“You got it, boss.” Jimin salutes playfully.

“I have a question.” Youngjae steps a little closer to Mark’s desk, and the man looks up at him. “Markeu Twain?”

“Jesus.” Mark breathes out in mild annoyance majorly overshadowed by his slight smile. “The other shift manager, Jackson, likes to fuck with our nametags. He’s in charge of printing that stuff whenever it’s lost or damaged or when a new worker comes on. You’ll meet him if everything goes well. Good luck getting used to that wacko.”

“Thanks for the opportunity.” Youngjae smiles again.

“No problem, Youngjae.” He returns the gesture before going back to his typing, politely ignoring the pair as they leave. Jimin leads him through another door to the locker room. He rummages through a bin off to the side, rustling loud and busy. He pulls out a clear package with a folded, black shirt inside and tosses it to Youngjae, who catches it with a slight start.

“I’ll put your backpack in my locker for now.” Jimin makes grabby hands and Youngjae passes it to him. Then he makes quick work of sliding out of his jacket and handing that off to Jimin as well before switching his shirts, tucking the hem of the stiff cotton button up into his jeans and tightening his belt some. The shirt has the _Jam Crib_ written in funky lettering across the left breast.

“Ready?” Jimin claps his hands together with a soft grin.

“Ready.” Youngjae nods. 

They go back out to the front and Jimin begins walking him through his duties as a server, reminding him multiple times that it’s usually a chill gig because most people just come in to get drunk or high and listen to music. The only night he has to worry about is Saturday when the place is packed wall to wall, ceiling to floor.

Youngjae is nodding as Jimin takes him through some more things. He’s attentive and following what he’s saying the best he can, taking mental notes on what the older emphasizes. Everything is going well until he catches sight of who he thinks is Minho making his way over with something obviously in his balled fist. At the same time Youngjae locks eyes with a man he’s never seen before just passing through the curtains at the entrance, jet black hair gelled handsomely, eyebrows thick and intimidating, and dark eyes trapping his with an unmistakable note of recognition.

That’s when his chest tightens the way it does when he thinks something bad is about to happen. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm crying. why is writing so hard?


End file.
